


Naturalistic Poetry

by iiopenedrainbowedeyes



Series: Poetry [1]
Category: Poetry - Fandom
Genre: Gen, Inspiration, Moonlight, Poetry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-10
Updated: 2017-01-12
Packaged: 2018-09-30 13:11:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 1,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10163738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iiopenedrainbowedeyes/pseuds/iiopenedrainbowedeyes
Summary: Open your eyes, for my eyes have been open a long time ago!





	1. If They Should Come For Us

**Author's Note:**

> Don't be rude.

 

__

 

_these are my people & I find_  
_them on the street & shadow_  
_through any wild all wild_  
_my people my people_  
_a dance of strangers in my blood_  
_the old woman’s sari dissolving to wind_  
_bindi a new moon on her forehead_  
_I claim her my kin & sew_  
_the star of her to my breast_  
_the toddler dangling from stroller_  
_hair a fountain of dandelion seed_  
_at the bakery I claim them too_  
_the sikh uncle at the airport_  
_who apologizes for the pat_  
_down the muslim man who abandons_  
_his car at the traffic light drops_  
_to his knees at the call of the azan_  
_& the muslim man who sips_  
_good whiskey at the start of maghrib_  
_the lone khala at the park_  
_pairing her kurta with crocs_  
_my people my people I can’t be lost_  
_when I see you my compass_  
_is brown & gold & blood_  
_my compass a muslim teenager_  
_snapback & high-tops gracing_  
_the subway platform_  
_mashallah I claim them all_  
_my country is made_  
_in my people’s image_  
_if they come for you they_  
_come for me too in the dead_  
_of winter a flock of_  
_aunties step out on the sand_  
_their dupattas turn to ocean_  
_a colony of uncles grind their palms_  
_& a thousand jasmines bell the air_  
_my people I follow you like constellations_  
_we hear the glass smashing the street_  
_& the nights opening their dark_  
_our names this country’s wood_  
_for the fire my people my people_  
_the long years we’ve survived the long_  
_years yet to come I see you map_  
_my sky the light your lantern long_  
_ahead & I follow I follow_


	2. An Anthology of Rain

 

__

 

_For this you may see no need,_   
_You may think my aim_   
_Dead set on something_

_Devoid of conceivable value:_   
_An Anthology of  Rain,_   
_A collection of voices_

_Telling someone somewhere_   
_What it means to follow a drop_   
_Traveling to its final place of rest._

_But do consider this request_   
_If you have pressed your nose_   
_Of any shape against a window,_

_Odor of metal faint, persistent,_   
_While a storm cast its cloak_   
_Over the shoulder of every cloud_

_In sight. You are free to say_   
_Whatever crosses your mind_   
_When you look at the face of time_

_In the passing of one drop_   
_Gathering speed, one drop_   
_Chasing another, racing to reach_

_A fork in the path, lingering_   
_Before making a detour to join_   
_Another, fattening on the way_

_Until entering a rivulet_   
_Running to the sill._   
_So please accept this invitation:_

_You are welcome to submit,_   
_There is no limit to its limit,_   
_Even the instructions are a breeze_

_As long as you include_   
_Nothing about yourself_   
_Except your name. Your address_

_Remains unnecessary, for the rain_   
_Will find you — if you receive it_   
_It receives you (whether or not_

_You contribute, a volume_   
_Is sent). And when you lift_   
_The collection you may hear,_

_By opening anywhere, a drop_   
_And its story reappear_   
_As air turns to water, water to air._


	3. The Ashes

 

__

 

_When the puppy snarfles for breakfast_   
_I wake to the radiator gurgling_   
_then feet crunching the reticent snow._   
_Before I was born, Mother sewed her own suits._   
_What do her ashes know?_

_•_

_Father shoved snow off the supine roof._   
_Mother crafted Christmas ornaments:_   
_glue and glitter and red balls._   
_No tinsel, no angels._   
_Her death started in the living room._

_•_

_For bonsai, pliers the size of a nail clipper,_   
_spools of wire and a fist-sized rock._   
_One bore a petite pomegranate,_   
_never to eat, not to touch._   
_Her death began with a baseball bat._

_•_

_In the vineyard, he secured the strongest cane_   
_from training stake to fruiting wire._   
_Pruning with handsaw and lopper._   
_He’d leave a spur for the next season._   
_He shoved her away with direct objects._

_•_

_In a cold snap if one pipe freezes,_   
_the rest may freeze as well._   
_Even before the puppy snarfles._   
_Even before a baby brother arrived_   
_in the misleading car in Mother’s arms._

_•_

_After the war, after she met Father,_   
_she smoked cigarettes but didn’t cha-cha anymore._   
_She’d light up and blow smoke_   
_out the apoplectic window._   
_He found the ashes on the sill._

_•_

_Fireflies blinked for mates or prey outside_   
_the savvy window of my own first home._   
_On the stereo, a bluesman cried,_   
_I need my ashes hauled!_   
_The dress was too smart to wear._

_•_

_I tucked away our baby’s pink layette_   
_in circumspect mothballs_   
_for a christening that never took place._   
_As well, a doll that Auntie crocheted._   
_More than anything, I love tidal pools._

_•_

_I know her ashes are at Father’s, lost_   
_in his charnel of junk mail._   
_He claims that thieves have stolen that box,_   
_his knob cutter and root hook._   
_He says, remains aren’t ashes anyways._

_•_

_Winter stripped everything to the limb_   
_and dejected nest. No angels, no crèche._   
_I don’t know whose recollections are suspect:_   
_after leaving Maui, Mother learned to swim._   
_She loved tidal pools more than anything._

_•_

_In my kitchen, the logs blink in the fire —_   
_through blinds, the wind blusters and_   
_the browbeaten trees creak in the orchard._   
_The rain pours then stops for sun. If_   
_he lost Mother’s ashes what more could I stand?_

_•_

_Omusubi tastes best on black beaches._   
_Since Mother never learned to swim,_   
_did she watch her five brothers from a blanket?_   
_On the intransigent subway, I don’t know if_   
_I’ve passed my station. (His mother said yes —)_   
_Iron: I bit my lip again._

_•_

_Mother showed our baby how to sift flour_   
_and how to crank an eggbeater._   
_After Father lost her,_   
_he barred everyone from the rooms and the yard_   
_where at night long red worms_   
_slither up from the ground._

_•_

_Her ashes know: before the puppy snarfles,_   
_Father shoves snow off the supine roof;_   
_for bonsai, use pliers the size of a nail clipper;_   
_in the vineyard, the strongest canes;_   
_in a cold snap, a hair dryer on frozen pipes;_   
_fireflies blinked for mates or prey outside_   
_while I tucked away my baby’s pink layette._   
_Her ashes know their box is in the living room_   
_where she didn’t cha-cha anymore._   
_Where has winter stripped everything to the nest?_   
_In my kitchen, the logs blink in the fire and I know_   
_omusubi tastes best on black beaches._   
_She knew to show her granddaughter how to sift flour._


	4. Imaginary

 

__

 

_The faded remains of ancient advertising —_   
_captives on parade in native costume._   
_Now the whangam, that imaginary animal_   
_led by Wharfinger, keeper of the wharf._   
_And you, my puce, sitting between the paws_   
_of the mechanical lion, his brittle heart of glass._   
_The regiments of holiday shoppers,_   
_in formations two-by-two, are borne_   
_along the sliding pavements between displays_   
_into the Pavilion of the Encrusted Compass._   
_O hub of panopticon, each moment on display,_   
_from the central monitor there is no escape._   
_This is all accomplished, even the symphonic_   
_wrecking of the antique locomotive, in silence._   
_I have misplaced my whipcat and whinstone._   
_I try to recall something that I know._   
_A westing is a space of distance westward._   
_Wheep: the sound of steel drawn from a sheath._   
_What was the name of the Babylonian sidekick_   
_of Sir Thomas More’s lead warren?_   
_Time for the steam-driven, slow reckoning,_   
_for the chains and block and tackle dangling_   
_from the eternally unfinished dome, the chrome-_   
_plated waterfall and the ascension_   
_into the arcades, the arcades and their broken promises._

**Author's Note:**

> Love it, love me.


End file.
